Really Mustache
by oohlookaunicorm
Summary: "Seriously, you're going to get rid of that rat on your face, aren't you?" John's had a rough night. First, his best friend came back from the dead. Then, he attacked aforementioned best friend. Then, he found out that no one actually likes his mustache. When he and Mary get home, he picks a fight he shouldn't, and ends up in the last place he should be.


**A/N: I'm writing this for a friend! I swear, it isn't mi- oh, you just want to read it? Well sure, have at it. But I have to warn you, it ends sort of abruptly. If you would like to use it to jump start your own fic, be my guest. But let me know first, ok? Thanks! Your read is much appreciated. ^-^**

"Seriously, you're going to get rid of that rat on your face, aren't you?"

John had had enough of Sherlock's snide remarks about his mustache- and Mary didn't even like it. Mrs. Hudson said it "aged him." He sighed at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He supposed it would have to go, sooner or later. Preferably sooner. He couldn't have the world's only consulting detective making jokes during cases- how would Lestrade react? The whole of New Scotland Yard would need blankets for the shock, he mused with a laugh.

He made his decision, and returned to the bedroom, where Mary was reading a book.

"You're going to shave it off, then?" she asked, not looking up.

"I-no," John stuttered. "Why would I-?"

"He hates it," she interrupted.

John sighed. "You hate it."

"Yes, but you'll do anything for him," Mary interjected.

"Why would I? He's an arrogant git!" John scoffed.

Mary laughed. "He may be an arrogant git, but you love him."

"For God's sake, I am not gay! You of all people should know that!" he argued.

Mary smiled knowingly.

"I can't take this from you, too!" he exclaimed, and headed for the door before stopping and grabbing jeans and a jumper from the drawers of his wardrobe.

Mary set the book on the bedside table. "Where are you going?"

"Somewhere I won't be judged for my facial hair or my sexuality!" he shouted as he pulled on both the jumper and the jeans, almost tripping several times before he reached the front door.

As it turned out, John walked for about ten minutes and realized he had exactly one idea where he was going. And it certainly wasn't a judgment free zone.

"Oh, dear," Mrs. Hudson fussed the moment she saw him. "Why are you here? You don't even have a coat!"

John brushed her hand away as she reached for his forehead, presumably to check for a fever. "I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson. Is Sherlock home?"

"I believe so, but he's in one of his moods and I-"

He walked up the stairs with a nod and a quietly muttered, "I'll take care of it."

He pushed open the door to 221B, and couldn't help but feel like he was coming home. "Sherlock," he called cautiously, and stepped into the flat to find Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table, his head in his arms, shaking.  
"Sherlock?"

The man jumped, startled, and lifted his head. His eyes were red, his porcelain cheeks stained with tears. "John," he said, quickly rubbing at his eyes as though he could force John to unsee what he saw.

"Sherlock."

The room was quiet for a few moments. A few moments in which John had absolutely no idea how to react, and Sherlock no idea how he wanted John to react.

"Sherlock," John choked.

The man so named regained some of his wits. "Why are you here?" he bit out.

John looked down at his feet. "Mary and I- that is... I sort of..." He bit his lip. "There was a bit of a row, yeah? And it was a bit my fault. Well, a lot my fault. I think I've gone picking fights where they shouldn't be. And, Sherlock, I just needed... I don't know. You, I suppose. I think I need you."

Sherlock stood hastily, then stopped altogether. "I don't understand what you're saying, John."

"Nothing," John sighed. "Just, never mind. What's got you so..."

"Sentimental?" Sherlock ventured. "Emotional?" He laughed bitterly. "You're going to be engaged, and..."

As Sherlock trailed off, John's eyebrows dropped in confusion. "What does that have to do with-?" John stopped mid-sentence, his eyes suddenly going wide. "Is this, then, a... platonic, or...?"

Sherlock steeled himself. He was sure that John could sense his sudden tension before he replied, "Romantic, John."

John realized belatedly that this was the worst possible thing he could have done, and that now, anything he did would make it worse. So, he did what he had been doing all night; he followed his gut.

"Come here, Sherlock."

Sherlock obeyed.

"I love you, you giant git."

Sherlock let out a sigh of relief, the tension leaving his entire body with it. The tension was quickly replaced by confusion. "You love Mary, though," he reasoned.

"I love both of you. And I don't know that I can have both of you, but I want to. Oh God I want to. And-"

Sherlock cut him off with a surprisingly gentle kiss. "I know this may be selfish, but consequences be damned, John. I want you, too."

John hesitated momentarily before reaching his arms around that ridiculous neck and pulling Sherlock into another kiss.

When they pulled away from each other, Sherlock chuckled. "Perhaps Mary and I can work out some way to share you."

John swallowed dramatically. "I'd like that."

"Of course, that mustache has to go."


End file.
